


The Benefits of Nesting

by Robotamputee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Gen, Nesting!Dean, Sam's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robotamputee/pseuds/Robotamputee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has noticed a distinct change in Dean's behaviour since they arrived at the Men of Letters' bunker, and he can't help but approve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Benefits of Nesting

First it was the music.

It started innocently enough, with Dean coming across a dusty old record player and box of records hidden in one of the bunker's many rooms. He sat at the cluttered war table for the rest of the day while Sam did research, one hand nursing a beer, the other idly flipping through the Men of Letters' collection and whistling every now and again when he approved of their choices. Of course Sam knew, in an abstract sense, that Dean could enjoy music made before the 1970s, but he still never expected to wake up on their third day in the bunker to the crackling sounds of a needle skipping over vinyl followed by Frankie Laine's voice drifting down the hall like an errant breeze.

The music helped more than Sam expected. While the electricity chased away the shadows and the hot water chased away the cold, the soothing and oftentimes melancholy tunes helped to chase away the ghosts that lingered about the bare and empty rooms around them. Dean still refused to let his brother pick the music, but Sam found he didn't really mind; while Dean tended towards songs that could almost be categorised as _wistful_ , it was a welcome change from the oftentimes loud and obnoxious classic rock that was Dean's usual fare.

Shortly after Dean's discovery of the record player--about the time they found the Nazi necromancer case--Sam started noticing that, though his brother still carried a drink with him almost everywhere he went, he had started switching out his usual beer for a tumbler of scotch instead. When questioned, Dean insisted it was the lure of free, good quality booze that the previous occupants had hidden all over the bunker that caused him to "class it up", as he said, but Sam wondered all the same. It didn't help that his brother had a tendency to stare despondently into the bottom of his glass whenever he sat down, his shoulders slumped and his whole body curled around his drink like it was whispering secrets to him. Still, as far as Sam could tell Dean's drinking was no heavier than normal, and as long as that was the case he couldn't complain.

Between the music and the scotch (not to mention the half-hour long showers every morning followed by a shameless parade around the bunker in what Sam had dubbed the "Dead Man's Robe") Dean was slowly ensconcing himself in the Men of Letters' lifestyle, minus the marathon study sessions (those were always more Sam's thing, as Dean was quick to point out). Sam still spent most of his time split between the hard-backed chairs in the study--pouring over old journals and manuscripts the likes of which he's never seen (even at Bobby's)--and a room that he was slowly starting to think of as "his". It was just a little thing, with a cot shoved in one corner and a huge steamer trunk that contained what few clothes he had in the other, and it wasn't much used (considering almost every minute of his life was being spent down among the Men of Letters' vast library) but still, it was his.

While Sam slaved away over books and manuscripts, Dean began digging into every nook and cranny of the bunker. He "practised his lock-picking skills" on every door he could find, examining the rooms beyond and throwing so much dust into the air with his exploring that it was getting hard to breath. Sam had started reading in his room to get away from it, until the day Dean tromped down the hall to stand in his doorway, silhouetted by the hall light behind him, waving an honest-to-God _duster_ around and demanding Sam help him give the place a thorough cleaning. Only Sam's shock at his brother's earnestness stopped him from laughing Dean out the door and instead caused him to save his place in the journal he was taking notes on and reach for the broom in Dean's hand. Dean had always been a bit of a germaphobe, and in this case at least Sam was completely willing to appease his brother's obsession with cleanliness. It was getting ridiculous in some places.

Five days, six handheld dusters and eleven full-sized Swiffer dust mops later, they'd managed to get the place as close to clean as either brother could imagine an almost century-old bunker getting. They'd also managed to listen to every single record the Men of Letters owned nearly half a dozen times each. It got to the point where Sam started wandering around the nearby town for second hand stores so he could buy them something new to listen to. It was as much in his interest as Dean's what they played, yet every time he brought something home he always ended up presenting it as a gift to Dean, not least because Dean seemed so genuinely excited to see them. Sam hadn't heard a classic rock song in weeks, and it was refreshing, if hard to get used to.

Once the bunker had been suitably cleaned, the kitchen became a place of interest for both brothers. Until then they'd been eating only pre-prepared food as usual, since the fridge and pantry both contained food that was over half a century old, and smelled like it. A days worth of bleaching, scrubbing, and the occasional shimmying-to-the-current-record later, though, and Sam could finally bring fresh produce home without worrying what would start growing on it. He expected Dean would appreciate of the newly-accessible kitchen too, if only because it gave him somewhere cool to store his beer and growing collection of scotches.

What Sam _didn't_ expect was to be woken up one day a month or so into their mysterious-bunker-aided retreat by the smell of frying bacon and, of all things, waffles. As he drifted blearily into the kitchen he was assaulted by the very last thing he _ever_ expected to see: Dean, bundled up in his Dead Man's Robe, swaying to some new find on the record player while cheerily sandwiching batter into a brand new waffle iron, one that eerily reminded him of a wedding gift Dean had given him what felt like years ago. As he rounded the island Dean was working at and came into his line of sight, his brother didn't even flinch; he just flashed Sam a smile and gestured to the breakfast bar across from him, where a plate full of hash-browns and toast already sat steaming softly. Sam sank down into the bar stool and watched in a daze of confusion as Dean tipped bacon onto his plate while the smell of waffles grew thick in the air.

After several moments of serious contemplation, Sam decided that the best course of action in the face of current events was just to let Dean do his thing and try not to get in his way. It was a good decision, since from that moment on Dean spent a good chunk of his day holed up in the kitchen, banging away on a slowly growing selection of bake- and cookware, and the things that resulted ranged from tasty to downright delicious. Apparently Dean was a natural cook, which Sam had never known but had been incredibly pleased to learn. Dean's smile grew wider with every compliment Sam threw his way, and it seemed to Sam that his brother liked the act of feeding him almost as much as he enjoyed the food himself.

During the time spent at the bunker Sam found himself discovering more and more that he'd never known about Dean. Like the fact that he had a tidy streak to rival the most persnickety housewife, or the fact that Dean couldn't help but hum along to whatever oldies tune was currently permeating the room. Slowly but surely the Dean Sam had grown up with--the brash, devil-may-care man-child with a fondness for smoky bars, cheap liqueur, and meaningless hook-ups--was giving way to a completely new Dean. And slowly but surely Sam was finding himself smiling as he studied, his heart swelling in something almost like hope for his brother as he saw the easy way Dean moved about he bunker. In only a few short months he had managed to turn this abandoned hideout into a surprisingly comfortable home.

Dean spent almost every moment of every day busy, whether it be with cooking or cleaning or reading or running errands. Breaks became shorter and fewer until Sam suspected Dean was on his feet or behind the wheel of his car all day every day. And he suspected why. The few times his brother did rest, it was like a shroud falling over him. His shoulders slumped, his eyes grew dark, and his grip on his glass of scotch (always scotch now, never beer) grew stronger. Something clouded Dean's mind in those idle moments, and Sam was only too aware of the nightmares in his brother's past to know that the frenzied activity was as much a distraction as it was a passion.

Since they slept in separate rooms now, Sam had no idea how Dean was sleeping, but somehow he suspected it wasn't very soundly. There would be nights when he would stay down in what they were calling the study, deep into some decades-old recounting of a vampire hunt, when he would hear the creaking of his brother's bed, and in those moments he could all-too-easily imagine Dean tossing and turning, his muscles rigid and his body sheened in sweat, plagued by monsters immune to rock salt or holy water. The urge to go up there, to calm him down, itched up Sam's arms and down his spine, but he always resisted. He might decide shortly thereafter to go for a stroll past Dean's room to his own, but he only paused for the briefest moment outside his brother's door, and once he heard the low, muffled mutterings coming from beyond he quickly moved on. Whatever it was that Dean was doing, it wasn't meant for Sam's ears, and after spending so long stuck in motel rooms and cars with him, he figured Dean deserved to have his secrets.

Not long after, however, Sam found out exactly what the mutterings were. It was completely by accident, of course; Sam was walking by his brother's door to find it slightly ajar, Dean's voice spilling out into the hallway. Sam tried to tune it out, but before he could he heard something that made him stop. Specifically, he heard a name he hadn't risked to speak aloud himself in weeks.

"--try them, Cas, Sammy can't get enough of them--" Dean was saying, quietly, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice even through the sudden rushing sound in his ears as all the blood left his face in a rush.

"I know you don't need to eat or whatever, but I also know you love burgers, and mine are way better than the crap you get at White Castle anyway. So, y'know, when you're done doin' whatever it is that's keeping you busy up there, feel free to come on down, rest your wings, just--just _stay_ for a while, okay? I--I miss you, man. I really do."

His voice trailed off then, and Sam was so shocked and embarrassed by what he'd already heard that he hurried off down the hall before Dean could continue or, God forbid, notice Sam eavesdropping just outside his door. The few times one of them did mention Cas, Dean was always almost deceptively casual about it, but now Sam was beginning to understand. About the fussing, and the "nesting", and the empty look in his brother's eyes whenever he sat in silence long enough to notice the lack of rustling wings, of a gravelly voice relaying news of the tablet, or a hunt, or even just the quality of honey found in a nearby hive.

Sam made no mention of what he'd heard, later that night as Dean wandered in and out of the study to ask after Sam's indexing and what he wanted for dinner, and Dean certainly seemed his usual self, or what now passed for usual. But, looking at him in this new light, he seemed haunted to Sam, both by his past and by the part of it that had once stood by his side, but now was gone. He could hear Dean moving about in the kitchen, no doubt getting an early start on dinner, and as he did Sam came to the slow realisation that perhaps Dean wasn't just building a home to chase away the ghosts and the nightmares, to keep the two of them comfortable until they inevitably moved on, but also to give a certain angel somewhere to stay so that when Dean could finally ask for real, Cas might just say yes.


End file.
